


A Phantom Thread

by RatsOnTheMoon



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Artist/Muse, Based on Phantom Thread (2017), Drama & Romance, F/M, Fashion Designer, Possible Character Death, Tailoring, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26120416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatsOnTheMoon/pseuds/RatsOnTheMoon
Summary: You are an artist losing all inspiration, ready to quit the job you used to love and abandon the name you've made for yourself... until The Third waltzes into your life, becoming the muse you so desperately needed.Based on the Paul Thomas Anderson film Phantom Thread (2017)
Relationships: Papa Emeritus III/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	A Phantom Thread

The large staircase seemed to be more challenging to conquer with each passing day, no matter the inviting warm glow that encompassed the hallways, signaling another rare, beautiful day was taking place outside of your home. If it were not for the large windows and the sunlight coming in through them, you would just assume that London, like you, remained as gloomy and unwelcoming as ever. 

Nonetheless, you started descending, step after step, your footsteps echoing loudly and making you cringe. It seemed as though things were so silent recently, that even the smallest sound drove you crazy. Especially at this hour, early morning on a monday. The start of another uneventful, uninspiring week. 

Opening the door to the breakfast room you found yourself sitting down almost robotically, muttering an unenthusiastic “Good morning.” To Francis, your assistant, right before you reached for the kettle and, like yesterday, and the day before that, started to prepare your usual morning cup of tea. 

Francis sat down once more, having stood up when you entered the room. It amused you, how much respect he still had for you even after working together for so long. You would’ve thought that by this point he would’ve gotten tired of your bullshit. 

“If I may ma'am, we need to go through your schedule for this week.”

Buttering a scone, you motioned for him to go ahead. Just thinking about getting back to work gave you headache, and a pang of hurt straight to your heart. 

You used to love your job, even when it was just a dream that seemed unreachable. You worked your ass off, day after day, to accomplish what you have right now. As a child you could only imagine every single person in London, regardless of age, gender or background, wanting to be dressed by you. By now, that statement wasn’t so far off from reality. 

You had clothed royalty, celebrities, people who were filthy rich and others who had just stood outside of your door at the right time, with their measurements in hand and a glow in their eye. 

You were one of, if not the most, famous tailors and designers in all of Europe and yet here you were. Uninspired, about to quit. You had been this way for months, the job had started to lack excitement, suddenly your sketches were mostly left unfinished, and you quickly felt burnt out when having to deal with your usual snobby clients. All that passion, that hard work that you so loved when you were barely climbing up the ladder, was tainted by the monotonous, insipid desires and requests of the upper class. 

You loved making dresses and suits, you loved the feeling of the fabric in your hands, the sound of the sewing machine, the smiles that lit up on your client’s faces when they saw themselves in the mirror after putting on the final result of your arduous months of work. But all those feelings, the seams, colors, textures, all seemed meaningless if you didn’t have inspiration. Glancing over at your side where your sketchbook was left open since yesterday, pages full of faceless bodies with incomplete designs, you only felt the knot in your throat become bigger. 

“Are you listening to me, ma'am?” Said Francis, pulling you out of your thoughts. You had been basically ignoring him this whole time. 

“Sorry, Francis. My head has been hurting ever since i woke up this morning— you were saying?”

“Well, besides the deadline of Lady Devon’s dress which is scheduled to be finalized on… let’s see…tuesday, there’s not much else. You told me to refuse that american politician and I don’t think you’re too keen on making another wedding dress, if you don’t mind me making assumptions of course.”

“Your assumptions would be correct, Francis. Like always.” You sighed, resting your head against your propped up hand and digging circles into your temples in an attempt to calm the migraine that promised to get worse throughout the course of the day.

“Will that be all, then?” You asked, attention returning to your —now cold— breakfast.

Only he didn’t answer. Unusual in Francis, who was always sure and quick, efficient. You turned to look at him.

“Well, there is something ma'am.”

“Something?” You gestured widely with your fork in hand, signalling him to continue. 

“This one client from Sweden wrote a letter a few weeks ago asking for an appointment, but you said not to answer to new singers or celebrities.”

“Right.”

“He called again last week so I informed him that you’re only tending to clients with whom you’ve worked before. He… kindly ignored me and invited himself over tomorrow. He had a strange accent, not swedish at all, and he apparently is not only a singer but some kind of… religious figure?” 

You set the fork down, looking directly into Francis’s eyes. Outside, it had started raining. 

“Well that’s a new one…” You said, tapping the table slightly with your fingers as you processed this new information. “Alright. I guess we have no choice but to entertain this… whatever is his name, anyway?”

“Papa Emeritus The Third.”

Your heart skipped a beat, finally. Something new, something exciting. 

A new beginning. 

“Papa Emeritus…” You savored his name. “Alright then. Make sure everything is ready to welcome him tomorrow then, dear.”

“Glad to, ma'am.” 

The older man left his elegant notebook at his side, and poured himself a cup of coffee. You stared at the motion, the careful pour, the single drop of milk that barely disrupted the perfect darkness of the liquid. 

Off to work then.

**Author's Note:**

> I've loved Ghost for a while now, but this is the first time I've written anything in the fandom! I hope you enjoy it :) i'll add more tags and maybe content warnings as I figure out where this is going.  
> I'd like to thank Linds and the Spooky Gay Little Rats groupchat for inspiring this fic!
> 
> If there's enough interest i would like to make this fic available for people who use he/him and they/them pronouns, so if you'd be interested in that please let me know.
> 
> Comments are what keeps me going so please leave some if you want/can! I'd love to hear your thoughts/reactions. :)


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